


Virgin Martyrs

by osprey_archer



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:20:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/pseuds/osprey_archer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recovering from his wounds after Earl Haraldson's attack, Ragnar asks Athelstan to tell him a story. But the story Athelstan picks gives Ragnar unexpected pause for thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Virgin Martyrs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sineala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/gifts).



“Tell me a story,” said Ragnar to his priest. 

The priest huddled over the fire, feeding it twigs and bits of bark, and did not look up. Ragnar stared at the top of his head, the thick dark curls that had grown back over his baldness. Almost as soft as Lagertha’s hair, those curls. If his priest had been within reach, Ragnar would have tugged them to get his attention. 

But the priest was on the other side of the fire, and Ragnar’s leg hurt too much for getting up. Ragnar found a slipper by his bed and tossed it lightly at the priest. It caught him on his shoulder and he flinched, as he always did when anything touched him. 

But he looked up too, and Ragnar repeated, “A story.” 

It was not so much that Ragnar wanted a story, like a little child. But it would be a distraction, so he could not think how he was hiding in Floki’s cabin like a mouse, injured and sick and at the mercy of Earl Haraldson if the earl ever found out. 

It would be a straw death if Ragnar died like this. He was too sick to fight. Too sick to protect his children - 

Ah, the children were safe enough today: they were out with Floki and Lagertha, looking for a cave that might be only in Floki’s mind. 

Safe enough: but it left Ragnar alone with his priest, and his priest was not really there now, but somewhere far away in his mind. “Priest!” Ragnar said. 

The priest shifted closer to the fire. He was always cold, though he could have been so warm if he would only come to Ragnar and Lagertha’s bed. “I don’t know any stories,” the priest said, staring into the flames. 

“You’re a priest,” Ragnar said impatiently. “Priests always know stories.” Surely that must be the same in all lands. 

“My stories aren’t as exciting as yours. I don’t want to bore you.” 

“You won’t,” said Ragnar. “Talk.” 

But the priest did not talk. Ragnar reached to the cold floor to find the other slipper, but the priest began to speak. “I could tell a virgin martyr story,” he said, blue eyes bright with the same strange brightness that had so interested Ragnar when first they met. 

“Yes, fine,” Ragnar said, and suddenly he was interested in the story, too: perhaps this would give him some understanding of Athelstan, who so baffled him. 

“Saint Katherine,” Athelstan began, “was the princess of Egypt - which is a very hot land, far from here, where men built mountains out of the sand to honor their gods. Katherine was a Christian and had pledged her chastity to God, but the wicked Roman emperor wanted her to marry him, and when she refused, he sent a dragon- ”

Suddenly he stopped, his brow scrunching. He rubbed a hand over his face and kept it there, over his eyes. 

“A dragon?” Ragnar prompted. Dragon stories usually had treasure at the end of them and fierce battles along the way. “Did Saint Katherine slay it? Was she a shield maiden? You must tell this tale to Lagertha.” 

“I think the dragon was Saint Margaret,” the priest said, his soft voice indistinct behind his hand.

“The emperor sent a dragon named Saint Margaret to talk to the princess Katherine?” 

“No,” said the priest. He began to pace, circling the fire. “I think I have the stories mixed up. I think the emperor sent the dragon for Saint Margaret when she wouldn’t marry him, and not Saint Katherine. It was supposed to eat her, but she beat it with her own chains…” he murmured, and he was talking to himself, and not telling a story to Ragnar. “Unless that was Saint Justina - or Juliana - I can’t _remember_ \- ”

And he covered his face with his hands. Ragnar propped himself up on his elbow. His side twinged, but this was _interesting_ : that was worth a little pain. 

The priest did not weep, and his shoulders did not shake; but they curled inward protectively. He was on Ragnar’s side of the fire now, and Ragnar reached over the gap between them and placed a hand on his priest’s hunched shoulder. “Priest,” he said. 

His priest let out a gasp, his shoulders tensing, and then all the tension went out of him and he sat, almost fell, on the edge of Ragnar’s bed. “Please don’t call me that,” he said. “I’m no longer worthy of it.”

“No?” Ragnar said. 

The priest shook his head, his face still in his hands. Ragnar cupped his hand around the back of Athelstan’s head, digging his fingertips gently into Athelstan’s scalp. His hair was wondrous soft. His priest shivered. “Why not?” Ragnar asked, soft, soft. 

“Don’t you see?” said Athelstan. “The virgin martyrs - they gave their souls to God, they resisted temptation even when their suitors sent dragons to kill them. They had their eyes gouged out and their breasts cut off rather than surrender their chastity. And I...” 

His voice faded away. Ragnar moved his hand down to knead the nape of Athelstan’s neck. Athelstan shuddered again and, with quicksilver swiftness, twisted to pressed his face in the curve of Ragnar’s neck and shoulder. 

Ragnar caressed Athelstan’s hair. Athelstan wept. “Shh,” said Ragnar. He kissed Athelstan’s hairline, the only part of his face that he could reach with Athelstan’s face burrowed in his shoulder. “You have not surrendered your chastity.” 

“My thoughts are unchaste,” said Athelstan. He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself, but the breaths quickened and he only grew more distressed. “My - my dreams are unchaste.” 

Ragnar would have asked for more details - for his priest to leave aside his virgin martyrs, and tell these dreams instead. But Athelstan shook with distress, his face fever-hot against Ragnar’s skin, and Ragnar could not. He stroked his hand down Athelstan’s back, long and slow, until Athelstan calmed and was still. 

Then Ragnar pushed Athelstan from him. He kissed the side of Athelstan’s face, still salty with tears, and said, “If that is all that unchastity requires, then I have been unchaste with all the women and half the men in Kattegut. You have told me your god is a god who forgives, yes?”

Athelstan let out a slow breath. “Yes. If you repent.” 

“And you are repenting, yes?” 

Athelstan let out another breath, and then another, his breathing speeding again. His hands clenched together in his lap. “I don’t know,” he said, and took in a great gasp and held his breath. His face reddened with the holding, and he let out his breath in a gasp again. “The emperors of Rome always sent devils and dragons and men with knives to force the saints to turn away from God,” he said. “If they had just waited - ” He licked his lips, staring down at his hands in his lap. “Do you think would they have won their saints that way?” 

“Would your god be jealous to see his sworn maidens stolen from him?” Ragnar asked, suddenly uneasy. With Earl Haraldson already baying for his blood, it was an unpropitious time to anger any god, even one as weak as Athelstan's. 

He put Athelstan a little farther from him. “Would you feel better if I sent a dragon after you?” he asked. 

Athelstan smiled down at his hands. “Do you have a dragon in call?” 

“There will be Lagertha, if I do not share.”

Athelstan’s eyes widened with alarm. Touching a woman, perhaps, was still too much for him to joke about. Ragnar cuffed him affectionately on the side of his head. “Go in peace, priest,” he said. “It is never good to anger gods; we will not take you from yours. But if it ever comes to you that he might be willing to share...”

Athelstan shook his head. But he was smiling again; and Ragnar was well pleased. 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy extremely belated birthday, Sineala! Better late than never, right?


End file.
